


Birdcage

by athena_crikey



Series: Songbird [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Supernaturally Attractive, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 20:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12919653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: The root of Morse's aversion to hospitals is exposed. It's not pretty.





	Birdcage

**Author's Note:**

> For those who recall Morse's determination not to go to hospital in Songbird, this delves into that.
> 
> Takes place about a month prior to Songbird, and three years after Birdsong.

It’s the cats who find it. A passerby notices their wailing just off the towpath and, after a brief, horrified investigation, runs to the nearest phone to call it in.

By the time Thursday arrives with Morse in tow, the PCs have chased most of them off. Only a particularly recalcitrant tabby remains, crouched over the corpse and spitting. The pathologist is kneeling by the dead man’s head, giving the cat a look of firm displeasure which is having no apparent impact. 

“Get it off there,” Thursday tells Morse; the DC is standing off to the side looking away into the trees, eyes flicking back towards the body for a second at a time before returning to the unthreatening foliage. 

Morse stamps forwards, feet stomping heavily on the underbrush, and claps his hands. “Go on. Get away. Get away!” When this has no effect, he moves in to shove the cat off.

“I don’t suggest –” begins DeBryn, but it’s too late. The cat has already sunk its fangs deep into his hand. Morse gives a cry of surprise and pain and yanks his hand back. The cat hisses and hunkers down low over its treasure as Morse pulls away, cradling his hand close to his chest. 

“It bit me,” he announces, unnecessarily. 

“The trials of police work,” says Thursday, not unkindly. “Best get it cleaned up when we get back to the nick; cat bites can fester something awful.”

“Use ethanol,” suggests the pathologist. Then, turning back to the corpse, “Now, about this cat?”

  
***

When Thursday stops by Morse’s desk later in the day, he finds the songbird has wrapped his hand in gauze. “Out of the first aid kit,” Morse says, when he catches Thursday looking. “I didn’t want to get blood on the report.” He indicates the paper he’s working on, currently whiting out typographical errors. At the moment the paper resembles a redacted military report, pock-marked with blanks that have to do with poor typing rather than sensitive material.

“Very thoughtful of you. Any joy identifying the body?”

“I have the list of his personal effects and a description of his clothes; the putrefaction and the cats mostly did away with his face. I should have a few names off the missing persons list soon, but formal identification may be more difficult.”

Thursday nods. “Keep at it.”

  
***

He doesn’t see Morse again until the next morning. The songbird is at his desk when Thursday arrives, pecking away at the typewriter with his left hand. His right is on the desk, rough gauze bandage still encircling it.

“Morning,” says Thursday, pausing at the side of his desk and waiting for Morse to look up. He does, cool blue eyes meeting Thursday’s. “That still not better?” he asks, indicating Morse’s hand.

“It’s a bit red this morning; thought I should keep it clean.”

“Does it hurt?”

“It’s fine,” says Morse, dismissively, pulling it into his lap and out of Thursday’s line of sight. “About the corpse – I think I have a potential identification. John Hilt, went missing five days ago. Local man, lived nearby and often went for walks on the towpath.”

Thursday nods. “Follow it up. Have you heard back from DeBryn on cause of death?”

“Not yet. He said this afternoon.”

Thursday passes him, pausing in the doorway to his office as he unlocks the door. “Bring it to me when you have it.”

“Yes, sir.”

  
***

Morse comes in with the pathologist’s report around three o’clock, interrupting Thursday’s afternoon cuppa, a hot sweet brew served up by the canteen downstairs. He sets aside the tea cup while Morse comes to a stop in the centre of the office, standing with his arms by his side, a hint of white peeking out from beneath his right shirt cuff. The warm spring sunshine filtering in through the windows behind Thursday picks up specks of dust on Morse’s dark suit and highlights the wrinkles in his shirt. Thursday suppresses a sigh; if Morse cared to, he could outshine any clothes no matter how dirty or creased. The fact that he doesn’t is part and parcel of his iron will, but it does leave him looking untidy.

“Dr DeBryn says the cause of death was a blow to the head – one strong blow, delivered to the back from the left side,” says Morse, launching into the topic without any prelude. 

“Left handed?” asks Thursday.

“Could be, or could just be that they came up behind him from that side. DeBryn says the weapon is something long and hard, probably wood rather than metal.”

“A bat? Cricket bat, perhaps?”

Morse considers the suggestion, weight shifting to one side slightly as he thinks. “It would have to be the narrow side.”

“Anyone in Hilt’s life an ardent cricketer?”

Morse gives him a glance that has just the slightest hint of amusement in it. “Not that I’m aware of, sir.”

“Well, keep digging. Located anyone to identify the body?”

“If it is Hilt, sir, he has a mother living in Jericho. But the face…” a look of disgust passes over Morse’s fine features, turning them into a brief caricature of beauty rather than the real thing. “It will have to be his clothes, if not his teeth.”

“No wallet?”

“No. Either theft, or made to look like it.”

“Or taken to keep his identity a secret,” supposes Thursday. It’s an obvious option; one Morse should have thought of. “How’s the hand?”

Morse’s arm twitches, but he doesn’t raise it. “Fine, sir.”

“Still red?”

“Just a little swelling,” replies Morse, mulishly. “It will pass.”

Thursday gives him a mild look, reaching for his tea cup. “Well, mind you keep an eye on it.”

  
***

Thursday arrives at work the next morning to find Morse’s desk empty – unusual, in his short time working in Cowley Station. The lad usually arrives early and leaves late, skipping breaks and putting in more hours than any of the other DCs. Even then, Thursday knows, it’s unlikely he’ll earn their approval.

Still, that’s nothing Morse doesn’t know. It’s not them he’s working for, it’s himself. 

Thursday has just settled himself in behind his desk when he hears Lott whistle. “Well well, look who the cat dragged in.”

A couple other officers snigger. Thursday half-rises from his chair to see Morse enter, head down and shoulders low. His hair is a halo of auburn and gold in the early morning sunlight filtering in through the tall windows, his face pale as marble and just slightly mottled. He has an unlikely attractiveness to him that tells Thursday he’s not concentrating on disguising it as hard as he ought to. 

He waits a few minutes for the CID to calm down and return to its daily business, then stands and goes to his door. “Morse.”

Morse looks up, head canted at an odd angle. Thursday watches him swallow, sees his pale throat move. Thursday inclines his head towards his office, and Morse stands. His leg catches on the leg of his chair and he stumbles, catching himself heavily against the wall. His right arm buckles under him and his shoulder takes his weight, causing the wall to shake. 

On the other side of the office, someone laughs. 

Morse pulls himself up and steps into Thursday’s office holding his right shoulder. He stands obstinately in the centre of the office until Thursday comes in, shutting the door behind him. He’s wearing a jumper under his jacket, Thursday notices – on a warm spring day.

“Sit down,” says Thursday, rounding his desk at a speed calculated to give Morse time to fold himself into a chair before he is himself sitting. His breathing is odd, heavy and uneven. 

“Well?” he asks, leaning forward and resting his hands on his blotter. 

Morse raises an eyebrow, looking back. At this range, the unevenness of his skin tone is apparent, as is the hunched way he holds himself. “Well what?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I’m just a bit under the weather,” he amends, seeing Thursday’s irritated look. 

“Songbirds get ill, do they?”

“Everyone gets ill, sir. It’s just rarer – fewer of us to transmit disease.”

Thursday raises his eyebrows enquiringly. “So it’s got nothing to do with that cat bite, then?”

Morse’s hand twitches on the chair arm; it’s still wrapped in gauze, but looking closely he can see that Morse’s fingers are pink at the tips, the usually-pale skin of the back of his hand a colour closer to raspberry. 

“Let’s see it,” prompts Thursday. Morse slowly, reluctantly, pulls out his hand and yanks free the end of the gauze, unwrapping it. 

His hand is swollen and reddened, the skin around the bite a deep, angry red, his skin irritated all the way from fingertips until his wrist disappears under his shirt cuff. 

“And that looks like nothing wrong to you?” says Thursday, standing. “Get up. Come on.”

Morse, suddenly cagey, remains seated. “Come where?” he asks. 

“Medical consult.”

  
***

Morse positively shines in the bright sunlight outside, so much so that Thursday is tempted to tell him to turn it down, if the topic weren’t off limits. As it is, the officers in the motor pool stop and stare as Morse drifts by, Thursday shepherding him to the Jag and watching to see he gets in alright. There’s a jointless lack of coordination to Morse’s movements, a stage halfway to that of leglessly drunk, that sets off alarm bells for Thursday.

“What’s your temperature?” he asks as he slides in beside Morse and starts the engine. 

“Dunno,” replies Morse, rubbing twitchily at his forehead. His breathing is still uneven, too deep one minute and then panting to catch up. “Normal, I should think,” he adds, but he doesn’t sound terribly convinced. He watches the world outside pass them by, eyes glued to the window and hand wrapped tight around the armrest. As soon as he determines their route he relaxes, sinking back into the chair and letting his fingers untense. 

They drive in silence, Morse hunched in the passenger seat catching glances from passersby and other drivers, while Thursday does his best to put his foot down in the sleepy Cowley morning traffic. 

They arrive at Cowley General in minutes, Thursday driving around to the back lot which the mortuary overlooks. Thursday gets out first, waiting for Morse to haul himself out; he does so with his usual lack of grace – usually part of his disguise, but now Thursday wonders how intentional his misstep is, how much control he has of his lanky form. 

The back door is a wide steel double door, painted white against the building’s institutional grey. Thursday pulls it open and holds it for Morse who slips by with his arms wrapped around himself, as though he were cold in the warm spring morning. 

Pathology is downstairs; Thursday lets Morse go first, following watchfully as the songbird takes hold of the railing with his left hand to steady himself on his way down, right hand still tucked tightly against himself. Thursday frowns.

DeBryn isn’t in the large open mortuary, nor the small office connected to it. “Sit yourself down there and wait,” Thursday instructs, pointing to one of the chairs in DeBryn’s office; he himself goes out into the hall and down into the neighbouring room, a laboratory filled with glassware and high tables and stools. The men there are wearing lab coats; they look up at his entrance. 

“I’m looking for Dr DeBryn,” he says to the room in general, looking from one staring face to another.

“Try the canteen,” suggests one; the others nod and turn back to their work.

The hospital, like most hospitals in Thursday’s experience, is a labyrinth of corridors and foyers, staircases and lifts. He’s been here often enough that navigating it presents little challenge, but he sees visitors wandering the halls with dazed looks on their faces, doubtless searching out appointments or relatives. 

The canteen is largely empty this time of morning, just a few people dotted about its long tables drinking tea or nibbling at plastic-looking food. Thursday spots the pathologist from the back, his tweed jacket at odds with the lighter clothing worn by the other diners. 

“Doctor?” he says, coming around DeBryn’s right side. The doctor is reading the paper and drinking a cup of tea from a plain institutional cup and saucer. He looks up at Thursday’s beckoning, eyes sharpening as he recognizes the detective. 

“Inspector,” he greets. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“It’s Morse. He’s ill. I need some advice – he needs some advice.” 

“Ill? That’s unusual,” says DeBryn, rising. 

“It’s that damn cat bite,” replies Thursday, escorting the doctor out of the canteen, his tea and paper sitting abandoned on the table. “Started out with some swelling, now it’s lobster-red and he’s weaving about like he’s three sheets to the wind.”

DeBryn frowns. 

They walk downstairs in silence, hurrying along over the speckled linoleum floors past mint-green walls peppered with posters and notices. DeBryn shoves the doors to the mortuary open roughly and wheels around towards his office, shoulders set in a firm line. 

“I hear you’re under the weather, Morse,” he says as he walks in, rounding his desk to produce a large black case from beneath it. He puts that down on the desk and turns to Morse; Thursday stands against the wall, arms crossed. 

“Just a bit chilled,” says Morse, licking his lips – Thursday’s eyes follow the motion of his tongue, lingering on his moist lips. 

“Cat bite not better?” DeBryn rounds his desk and makes to pick up Morse’s hand; Morse pulls it back instinctively. DeBryn raises his eyebrows and Morse slowly extends his hand, eyes dropping. DeBryn pushes his jacket and shirt cuffs up as far as he can, exposing reddened skin the whole way. “And you didn’t think this warranted seeing anyone about?” asks DeBryn in a deceptively dry voice.

“It wasn’t this bad before,” temporises Morse. He looks up to DeBryn but he’s lacking his usual forcefulness, and his eyes aren’t quite focused correctly. DeBryn tsks and pulls a thermometer out of his bag, sticking it in Morse’s mouth before the songbird can argue. 

While he’s waiting for the mercury to rise, DeBryn orders Morse to remove his jacket and jumper and, when that’s done, rolls up his sleeve. The redness rises nearly to his elbow, the colouring so intense it masks Morse’s freckles. 

Morse starts shivering a moment after his extra layers are stripped off. There’s a warm ray of sunshine coming in through the window behind DeBryn’s desk, and the dull clinking of the radiator suggests it’s on to off-set the chill of the mortuary. Thursday himself is overwarm in his suit. 

“Cold?” asks DeBryn, sharply, removing the thermometer and glancing at it.

Morse shrugs. “Can’t seem to get warm. It’s just a cold.”

“It’s not just a cold, Morse. It’s blood poisoning, like as not. You need to get yourself to a proper doctor. Dr Turner at the Radcliff. He’s worked with songbirds before. I’ll give him a call – you get yourself over there and go in through Casualty.”

“I’ll take him now,” says Thursday. Morse begins to protest, and he turns a hard look on him. “No objections; you need to get this taken care of, now.” He watches Morse firmly until the songbird pulls on his jumper and jacket and staggers up to his feet; Thursday catches hold of his arm and he pulls back with a pained look, tucking it in tight to his stomach.

“I’ll phone through to Dr Turner now,” says DeBryn, taking a seat behind his desk and reaching for his phone. Thursday nods his thanks and takes Morse out of his office.

  
***

Perhaps because he’s accepted that there’s no point expending energy pretending nothing’s wrong, Morse goes downhill quickly in the short car ride across town to the Radcliff. He sits shivering in the corner of the seat, face angular and pale. His eyes slide closed as they pass into Oxford, and when Thursday brings the car to a stop outside the hospital he has a hard time rousing Morse, calling him repeatedly and shaking his shoulder before he finally wakes. When his eyes open he appears dazed; it gives him the look of a wide-eyed innocent and for a moment Thursday stares, captivated, before he shakes it off and gets out to help Morse out.

Casualty is busy and chaotic, but even in chaos the news of a songbird’s arrival serves to provide a moment of silent stillness. Doctors, nurses, patients, visitors – there’s no difference in the reaction: they all stare with shocked awe. Then the demands of the situation snap back into place, and people one by one return to what they were doing. Thursday takes Morse to the front counter where an attendant takes down Morse’s information before shuttling him in immediately to see a nurse. Thursday mentions Dr Turner, and the attendant says he will be called down.

Thursday waits in the dismal waiting area, just a lonely group of chairs in an unoccupied corner. He sees a second nurse go in to Morse’s curtained-off area, then a third, and then two go running out while a man in a white coat hurries in. The nurses are back momentarily with IV bags and blankets.

Thursday sits waiting impatiently while Morse’s space becomes a hive of busy activity. He’s about to stand and go over to see what’s happening when the man – Dr Turner, Thursday presumes – comes out and looks around. Thursday stands, and the doctor hurries over. 

“Mr Thursday?” 

Thursday nods. The doctor, he notices, doesn’t introduce himself. Just launches into his speech, bland and to-the-point.

“Your songbird has sepsis, acquired from the cat bite. It’s a serious, potentially life-threatening, condition. He’ll need to be hospitalised for several days; we’ve already started him on antibiotics and fluids.”

“Will he pull through?” asks Thursday, feeling a pool of sweat spreading across his back, sticking his shirt to his skin. His heart’s beating a thready beat, leaving him feeling sick and shaky. Illness, even hospitalisation, he had anticipated. _Life-threatening_ is a sharp escalation. 

“We’ve caught it early, and songbirds tend to be very resilient. I can’t make a firm guarantee, but his odds are good.”

Thursday takes a deep breath, tries to slow his racing heart. “Good. What happens now?”

“We admit him. Visiting hours aren’t until two pm, and will depend on his condition. You’re welcome to check back then. You can also leave your number; you will be notified in the event of any changes to his condition.”

In other words: take yourself off. Thursday nods. “I see. I’ll be back later, then.”

The doctor turns and leaves without saying goodbye.

  
***

Thursday informs Crisp that Morse will be on sick leave for a few days – the exact number undetermined at this point. He then phones through to Win, catching her up. She sounds worried but calm; he presents Morse’s illness as serious but not dire, and hopes to heaven his summation is accurate.

Morse was working on a string of break-ins in wealthy Oxford neighbourhoods; Thursday punts that off on Lott, ignoring his bagman’s protests, and locks himself in his office to fret. Songbirds are resilient, the doctor had said. Thursday tries to comfort himself with that.

  
***

He drives over to the hospital for 2pm exactly, with a book for Morse and a terrycloth housecoat in case he’s up to sitting in bed; the only hospitals Thursday’s ever been in have had a hell of a draught.

When he gives his name and Morse’s to the receptionist at Patient Enquiries, though, he’s told Morse’s condition is stable but that he’s not able to receive visitors. 

“Can I speak to Dr Turner?” asks Thursday, struggling to keep his temper at bay. 

“Sorry, he’s left for the afternoon. Check back tomorrow,” suggests the bored receptionist. 

“Is there anyone I can speak to?” asks Thursday.

The receptionist glances down at a sheet of paper, then shakes her head. “Sorry,” she says in a monotone. 

Teeth clenched, Thursday takes himself away.

  
***

He rings the hospital twice that night, both times to receive the message that Morse’s condition is unchanged. Stable, they say; a word Thursday knows to hide a multitude of sins. Win packs a care kit for Morse: several books of poetry fetched from his flat, the housecoat, two pairs of woollen socks, a pair of slippers, a face towel, a hairbrush, and so on. “He’s not climbing the Andes,” says Thursday when he sees the finished product, a shopping bag brimmed right to the top, its sides bulging outwards.

Win gives him a look. “He ought to be comfortable. If he’s up to it, I’ll get some crosswords. I haven’t put them in for now; I don’t want to strain him. I’d do him up a thermos of something hot tomorrow, but…” she falls silent, fingers wrapping tightly about the straps of the bag, lips pinched together tight.

Thursday presses her shoulder, pulling her in towards him until he can feel her warmth at his side. “He’ll be alright. You’ll see. Right as rain soon enough.”

He can only hope it’s true.

  
***

Thursday makes the drive out to the hospital the next day for 2pm, Win’s bag on the seat beside him.

It weighs him down as he goes in the front door; he sets it down beside him and waits for his turn at the Patient Enquiries desk. Two other visitors are sent about their way before he’s called up, the same receptionist as yesterday giving him an uninterested look. 

“Name?” she asks, in a nasal tone.

“Endeavour Morse.”

She uses her pencil to guide her eyes over the lists in front of her. “He’s listed as stable, no visitors,” she says. 

“That’s what you said yesterday. If he’s stable, I ought to be able to see him. My wife’s packed him some things,” he adds, trying to appeal to her softer side. 

“No visitors,” she repeats, unswayed. 

“Then I’ll speak with Dr Turner,” says Thursday, not making it a request. 

“He’s gone for the day.”

“Then someone else,” growls Thursday.

She looks down at her papers again, tracing her pencil over the lines. “No one’s available right now.”

“They’re not available to speak to visitors,” says Thursday, flatly.

“Come back tomorrow.”

Thursday turns and storms out, pushing roughly past several other visitors and out into the sunny day.

  
***

Once back at the office, he phones DeBryn. “I need Dr Turner’s number,” he says, without preamble.

“Is something wrong?” asks the pathologist; Thursday can hear the concern bleeding into his voice. 

“Bloody hospital’s giving me the run around. Won’t let me see Morse, won’t let me speak to anyone.”

“Hm. Let me get you his number.” There’s the sound of papers shuffling, then DeBryn returns and reads a local number off to Thursday, who makes a note of it. “Let me know how Morse is, will you?” asks the pathologist.

“Right,” says Thursday. He hangs up, then dials the doctor’s number. It rings three times before being picked up by a young woman.

“Dr Turner’s surgery.”

“This is Detective Inspector Fred Thursday. I need to speak to Dr Turner,” he says, not pulling any punches. There’s a moment of silence, and then the sound of the line coming live again.

“Hello?” says the doctor, tone unreadable.

“Doctor Turner? This is Fred Thursday. It’s about Morse.”

“Morse?”

“The songbird,” bites out Thursday, temper simmering. It sears just under his skin, burning him from the inside out.

The doctor, conversely, sounds coolly collected. “Ah yes. His condition is stable.”

“I know that. I want more details. The hospital won’t let me in to see him, and you haven’t been available.” He doesn’t bother to keep the frustration out of his voice.

“He’s responding to the medication. It will be another few days before he can be discharged, and a few weeks of recovery after that.”

“I want to see him.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“For his own safety, your songbird is being kept on the psychiatric ward. It’s the only ward in the hospital with single rooms,” adds the doctor, before Thursday can demand an explanation. “Unfortunately, visitors are very disruptive in that environment and we have to limit them to exceptional circumstances.”

“But you do have visitors,” presses Thursday.

“Rarely.”

“I want to see him. Tomorrow.” Then, steeling himself: “He’s mine, doctor – I want to see him.”

There’s a moment of silence from the phone. Then: “Very well. I will arrange it. Tomorrow afternoon.”

The phone clicks before Thursday can agree.

  
***

In what feels like a newly developed pattern, Thursday is at the Patient Enquiries window at 2pm, Morse’s bag in one hand and the fingers of the other tightly fisted. He feels ready for a fight, ready to go after the first person who tells him he’s not allowed to see the songbird, not permitted to look after the lad in his charge. Hospitals may be where the sick come to get better, but in Thursday’s experience they’re also where men come to die, and it’s his responsibility to see that nothing happens to Morse.

Not very surprisingly, Dr Turner is not there to meet him. Thursday enquires for Morse’s room from the receptionist, this time insisting he will be met by Turner. Whatever the woman sees on her sheets, there must be some agreement there, because she gives him Morse’s ward and room number. “Ivy ward, room 4.”

He notices as he follows the directions he was given that while other wards are signposted, there are no signs for Ivy ward, no indication of its presence within the larger hospital building.

The only sign he finds is on the door to the ward itself, a double steel door with windows protected by wire mesh. There’s a buzzer to one side with a small red sign: Press for Entry. Thursday does, and a minute later a male orderly comes to let him in. 

“I’m here to see Morse. Room 4,” he says. The man looks down at his bag. 

“Can’t have that in here.”

“He’s not a psychiatric patient,” says Thursday. The orderly shakes his head.

“Leave it at the desk.” He points. Thursday gives it to the ward sister sitting there; she gives him a flat look in response. 

There’s a feeling of grim institutional orderliness to the place, no joy in the men and women working here and, Thursday very much suspects, no joy in their patients. He can hear banging coming from one room – he struggles not to think of it as a cell – and crying from another. And this is where they’ve put Morse. Locked up like a madman.

The orderly escorts him down the hall, their footsteps clicking on the linoleum. Each door has a narrow window of thick glass set into it; the doors themselves are steel rather than wood, and locked with a strong lock above the knob. 

Down at the end of the hallway are tall wooden chairs with thick arms and straps to keep their users confined. As they walk along they pass a large dark room with the door open; Thursday can see two bathtubs sitting empty in it, the floor dirty and stained and the porcelain tubs chipped. There are no windows to be seen.

“The facility here is state-of-the-art,” the orderly tells him, seeing Thursday’s grey-faced glances at the horrific world around him. He stops in front of one door and produces a key from his pocket, turning it in the lock. 

Thursday steps inside, into what proves to be a nightmare. 

A patient bed stands in the centre of the room, a steel IV tree standing beside it, and on the other side of the bed a tall square wooden table holding a porcelain emesis tray. There’s no other furniture, no window; the light pours down from overhead fluorescents, the bulbs hidden behind cages. 

The figure on the bed is huddled in a white patient gown, the cotton garment open at the back to reveal a long line of pale skin from shoulder to arse. Thursday can see this clearly because the figure has been tied down to the bed with heavy leather straps, positioned face-down with his outstretched arms bearing multiple IV needles. His face, turned away from Thursday, is half-covered by a restraint mask, long black straps twisting around the back of his head and making a knotted mess of his hair.

 _Wrong room_ , is Thursday’s first thought; he’s so certain of this that he stops on the doorstep, the orderly nearly running into him from behind. 

What stops him turning away and demanding that the hideous mistake be corrected is the sight, even from the distance, of the fine chain encircling the figure’s neck, the long silver line of it draped over the knob of his spine and skirting the throat at either side. 

“Morse?” he whispers, hoarsely. 

There’s a low groan from the twisted form on the bed. 

Feeling like he’s walking on broken glass, Thursday crosses the room to the bedside, circling around to face the figure there. His beauty disguised by the ugly harshness of the restraint mask, only Morse’s eyes – slivers of cornflower blue – and the bright flame of his hair speak to his identity. 

So quick he feels a twinge in his shoulder, Thursday’s hands shoots out. He’s undoing the mask before the orderly can cross to stop him, tearing the offensive thing away from Morse and flinging it off into the corner of the room. 

“Morse?” He reaches out to comb Morse’s hair with his fingers, softening down the unruly, tangled mess left by the mask’s straps. He strokes it for several seconds, Morse’s hair silken under his fingers, his touch gentle as that of a butterfly’s wings.

Morse looks up at him, eyes focusing slowly, but when he moves his mouth no sound comes out. 

“Here – you can’t just –” begins the orderly.

Thursday rounds on him like a jackal, snarling with a fury that scalds. “Get out. Get the hell out of here, or so help me...” He takes two steps towards the man, fists coming up; the orderly flees. 

Thursday returns to Morse’s side, unbuckling the restraints holding him down to the bed and helping him turn over. “There you go, easy does it. Easy, Morse.”

There are lines etched into his face showing where the mask was, a lingering proof of its touch. It makes Thursday sick. 

“How d’you feel?” he asks softly, shrugging out of his jacket and laying it over Morse. There’s no blanket and in just the light cotton gown Morse seems half-naked, is half-naked, his skin pale and perfect even in the harsh lighting. It reveals circles under his eyes and blood smears on his arms near the IV sites; if anything they serve to enhance the waiflike vulnerability in him, the doe-eyed innocence. 

It makes Thursday want to strike someone. Badly. 

“Dizzy,” says Morse, one clawed hand fisting itself in Thursday’s sleeve and holding on as if for dear life. “Everything’s spinning.” 

“It’ll settle,” says Thursday, with certainty he doesn’t feel. He doesn’t move from Morse’s side, stays there with the songbird’s hand clasping his sleeve until his back begins to ache from his awkward half-bended posture, and after. 

“Inspector,” comes a cold voice from the doorway, “this is a serious breach of hospital –”

Thursday calmly takes Morse’s hand from his sleeve and holds it instead clasped tightly in both of his. “Fetch Morse’s things. We’re leaving. Now. I will take him out in a housecoat if I have to,” he says, voice flat as a frozen lake. 

“You can’t just –”

Thursday turns, holding Morse’s hand by its fingertips, and feeling fury roll over him in fiery waves. “Here is what I ‘can’t just’, _doctor_ ,” he snarls. “I ‘can’t just’ leave my constable here _strapped half-naked to a bed_. I ‘can’t just’ leave while he’s here _locked up like a psychiatric case_. I ‘can’t just’ go home while he’s here being treated like some _thing_.”

“I think you overestimate –” begins Turner.

“No. _You_ overestimate your influence, your knowledge, your power. I wouldn’t leave a dog here like this, much less a young man needing help.”

“He’s no man. He needed to be treated accordingly – to prevent staff and patients taking an interest.”

Thursday stares back coldly. “His nature – whatever you think that allows in your treatment of him – makes this my decision. Fetch his things.”

The doctor turns and leaves.

  
***

Getting Morse dressed in his street clothes takes further arguing with the nursing staff, but eventually one relents and fetches his clothes. Thursday helps to get him dressed, mind firmly locked on his and Win’s last vacation to Blackpool rather than the expanse of alabaster skin before him. Morse is of no help, barely able to keep upright while leaning against Thursday, head lolling against the inspector’s shoulder.

The doctor grudgingly writes out a prescription for oral antibiotics for Morse to continue taking; Thursday stuffs it in his pocket as he gets Morse into a wheelchair, then it’s down the grim hallway and out into the main hospital area to find a lift. 

From the phone beside the front door he calls DeBryn, giving him a brief update and asking the doctor to meet him at his house. Then it’s out into the bright day, Morse wrapped up in his jumper and suit jacket, with Thursday’s jacket on overtop for good measure.

He half-helps, half-lifts Morse into the Jag. The songbird does manage to stay upright, leaning heavily against the door with his head resting on the window, eyes slanted closed. 

“You alright?” asks Thursday, as he slots the key into the ignition. “We could stay – try to find a different doctor, get you on a proper ward –”

“No.” Morse doesn’t look up, doesn’t move, but the word is solid as granite. 

And that’s that. Thursday starts the car, and they pull away.

  
***

The pathologist’s Morris is parked on the street outside Thursday’s house when they pull up. He stops the Jag right behind it and gets out, coming around to help Morse. He hears the door to the house open just as he catches hold of Morse’s elbow to help him up; by the time they’re standing on the kerb Win and Dr DeBryn have hurried out. Win looks shocked; DeBryn looks dour.

Between himself and DeBryn they get Morse inside, Win hurrying ahead of them to clear the sofa off. By the time they reach the den she’s cleared off the magazines and knitted blanket that were on the sofa, leaving it clear for them to deposit Morse. He slumps down to curl up on his side with a kind of feline grace, head resting on the cushion Win quickly fetches from the arm chair; DeBryn lifts his feet up and pulls off his shoes. 

“He should have stayed in hospital,” says DeBryn, taking Morse’s pulse. At Thursday’s silence he looks around and catches the look of smouldering rage on his face. 

It was DeBryn who put him there – DeBryn who sent them to Casualty, who recommended Turner. 

“Fred?” asks Win, softly. But the fury is already roiling, spewing out of him hot and toxic. 

“Should have _stayed in hospital_ ,” spits Thursday, words harsh and jagged. “Hospital, where they trussed him up like a rabid dog – hospital, where they tossed him in with the mad – hospital¸ where they tied him down on his face, the easier to care for _him?_ ” God alone knew what kind of ‘caring’ had taken place, what Morse had been subjected to in the three days of his captivity. 

DeBryn is crouching beside the sofa, staring at him with wide, appalled eyes. 

“Inspector –”

“Don’t,” snaps Thursday. “Don’t ‘Inspector’ me. Help him, or leave. But he’s not going back there.”

“I’m here to help,” says DeBryn simply, and turns back to Morse.

The Thursdays watch as he carefully examines the songbird, checking his temperature, his heart and breathing, the strength of his right hand. Morse endures it all with surprising good grace, half-conscious on the sofa with his eyes closed. Too exhausted to protest, Thursday diagnoses. 

“I’ll call the hospital to get the results of his most recent blood tests, but he appears to be on the mend. He’ll need several more days of bedrest, and after that a couple of weeks’ taking it easy.” DeBryn carefully tucks the knitted blanket in over Morse.

Rising, DeBryn turns to Thursday. “I hope you’ll believe me when I say I had no idea this would happen. Turner is renowned for his work with songbirds; no one has ever accused him of callousness.”

“Well they wouldn’t, if they thought he was protecting their property. Never mind how it feels,” replies Thursday. 

“I am sorry,” says DeBryn, sincerely, and Thursday believes he means it, believes he’s as shocked as Thursday was. 

“It’s not me who’s owed the apology,” replies Thursday, but without heat. They turn to look at Morse, sleeping silently on his side, right hand hanging limply over the edge of the sofa. 

“When he’s awake, he’ll have one.”

  
***

Thursday stays up with Morse that night, worried by Morse’s unresponsiveness, worried that he won’t have the 24 hour care he needs. He sits in the armchair and reads the paper, watches the telly on low-volume until the nightly broadcast ends, then settles down with a book. He started out with one of the volumes of poetry he’d fetched for Morse, but finds that too heavy going. He falls back instead on The Once and Future King, a surprising find from Morse’s flat, too modern, Thursday thinks. But as he reads on he follows the story of the young boy separated by an unspoken difference from the rest of his fellows, and wonders what it is Morse sees in the book.

He’s dozing sometime before dawn when a sound wakes him and he startles, book falling from his knee and landing softly on the carpeted floor. His mouth is dry and desiccated, his back aching and his shoulders sore; he’s too old to be sleeping in chairs. But he forgets all that when he hears Morse whimper. 

He’s up on his feet in a moment, crossing the den silently on slippered feet to stand beside the songbird. 

Asleep Morse is lovely, and in the soft, warm light cast by the reading lamp he’s all the more so: his golden skin has a light dusting of freckles, his lips gleam, his lashes lie dark against his cheeks. He has the colouring of an Italian portrait, perfect brush-strokes combining to create a glowing beauty. 

Thursday grits his teeth and forces himself to look past it, to see what’s really there: Morse, face tight with fear, is trembling – not with cold, Thursday somehow knows, but with terror. As Thursday watches he makes a low, hollow noise that twists Thursday’s heart.

He reaches out and touches Morse’s shoulder lightly. “Morse? It’s just a dream. Morse.”

Morse startles, blue eyes snapping open. He jerks backwards, meeting the back of the sofa and staying flattened against it until he recognizes Thursday. Only then does he untense. 

“Sir,” he says, quietly.

“Fred,” corrects Thursday softly, smiling reassuringly. 

“Where are we?”

“My house. Don’t you remember?”

Morse looks around at the homey den, at the worn furniture and silent telly, and runs his fingers over the home-made blanket wonderingly. “I thought I was dreaming,” he says, at last. 

“You’re here, and you’re safe now. Understand?”

Morse curls up more tightly under the blanket, head dropping onto the pillow. “Will you stay?”

“Yes, lad. I’ll stay.”

Morse gives him just a hint of a smile, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards briefly: it’s enough. 

He returns to his chair, stretches his back and then takes a seat, feels the springs giving way under his weight until he’s settled deep in the armchair’s embrace. On the sofa Morse adjusts the blanket over himself, turning his head on the pillow until he’s satisfied with its shape, and closes his eyes. 

The clock ticks on towards morning. 

END

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will become ironic when I get blood poisoning after my own kitten bites me.


End file.
